


Theirs

by legendrarry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, I don't even know how to tag this okay, M/M, Wedding Rings, this sort of just... happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:01:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legendrarry/pseuds/legendrarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows without putting it on that it'll fit perfectly, seamlessly, against the wedding band that's already there, and he knows that's exactly where it's meant to go. He's got Mary's promise of love and dedication around his finger; it really only makes sense that Sherlock's should be right there with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theirs

* * *

 

 It's meant for _him_ , that much is perfectly obvious.

 

He's not the brilliant Sherlock-bloody-Holmes or anything, but he really doesn't need the genius's deductive skills to figure this one out. There's a thin platinum ring on his bedside table that wasn't there when he went to sleep, and there are elegant letters engraved inside, _JW_ right next to _SH_ , small and almost entirely unnoticeable, and he's just a retired army doctor, not a consulting detective, but he still knows who this is for, who this is from.

 

He still knows what this _means_.

 

He also knows, just from looking at it, that it's his size – of course it was, of course Sherlock knew his ring size, just like he knew everything – and he knows without putting it on that it'll fit perfectly, seamlessly, against the wedding band that's already there, knows that's exactly where it's meant to go. He's got Mary's promise of love and dedication around his finger... it really only makes sense that Sherlock's should be right there with it.

 

He swallows hard around the lump in his throat and reaches for the ring with a fumbling hand. The metal is cold to the touch, but a pleasant warmth still spreads through him when he slips it on. It fits, just like he suspected it would, right on top of Mary's, like it was made to do so, and he feels alarmingly light-headed for a moment at the realisation of how completely _theirs_ he is.

 

* * *

 

Mary says nothing about the ring at breakfast, though he knows she sees it – he can tell by the smile she gives him when he passes the sugar over to her with his left hand, equal parts affectionate and amused.

 

It feels wrong somehow to not to visit Sherlock after this uncharacteristic but sentimental gesture, so he puts on his coat after breakfast and kisses his wife gently on the cheek.

 

“Tell him hello from me,” she says, giving him a little wink, though he never even told her where he was going. Of course she knows anyway.

 

“I will,” he says simply, kissing her again before leaving the flat.

 

* * *

 

The front door always creaks and he's never particularly quiet on the stairs, but Sherlock always looks somewhat surprised to see him whenever he shows up these days, like he doesn't expect to see John any more now that he's living somewhere else.

 

He doesn't bother saying hello when he enters today; he just strides across the room and settles himself across from Sherlock, into the armchair that's still his no matter where he's living, and it feels just like it did years ago, when he'd come home from the surgery or getting the shopping. If it weren't for the dustiness of the now rarely-used chair and the obvious lack of his belongings strewn about, he could almost pretend that things haven't changed at all.

 

The familiarity is comforting.

 

“You're back from your honeymoon,” Sherlock observes, tossing his newspaper aside carelessly, and it's such an obvious deduction that John wonders if he's trying to make small talk.

 

“Last night, yeah,” he replies, even though Sherlock already knows this. Probably found a way to get his hands on John's travel schedule. And he must've seen him sleeping there when he broke in, of course – when he sneaked into their room and left the ring there for John to find.

 

He thinks maybe he should be angry that Sherlock's gone and invaded his personal space – _again_ – but somehow he's not. Maybe he's just used to it by now, or maybe it's just that the intentions behind the invasion were good this time – he's not sure. But he's not feeling anger or even irritation. He just feels incredibly fond of the detective sitting across from him.

 

He wonders if he should bring it up, if he's supposed to mention the shiny new piece of metal on his finger or even if he's meant to say it outright. The ring feels so much like a mark of love, of never-ending loyalty and devotion and all the things between them that they don't normally say to each other, at least not out loud, and John's not really sure how he'd go about bringing it up anyway. He settles instead for placing his hand casually on the arm of the chair, fingers hanging over it, drumming lightly against the dusty fabric. The band gleams in the narrow strip of sunlight streaming into the room through the gap in the curtains, and, predictably, Sherlock's eyes follow the movement of his hand. For a moment he just stares at the ring, head tilted to the side, eyes fixed and unblinking.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” he says softly, and it's not entirely unlike the sound he makes when he's had an epiphany on a particularly challenging case, except it's usually not this quiet – nor is it ever accompanied by that slightly dazed look Sherlock's wearing now.

 

“Yeah,” John answers, even though the question hasn't been asked, and he's kind of not sure what the question is anyway.

 

His chair seems so much closer now than it did when he first moved in, when he lived here, and Sherlock barely has to lean forward at all to reach out and place one long, slender, hesitant finger against the shiny band. He's careful, _so_ careful, to avoid touching skin or the other ring, but John can still feel the pressure from Sherlock's index finger as he gently traces the tip of it over the new ring, looking positively fascinated as he studies it, like this is a case of utmost importance. His eyes flicker back and forth between the ring and John's face, and John knows he's deducing, wonders what conclusions he's coming to. Wonders what he's telling Sherlock without even speaking, without even knowing it. He sits in silence and lets Sherlock look his fill.

 

Sherlock starts to move back after a moment, and before he can fully consider the consequences, John stops him, carefully catching Sherlock's hand with his own before Sherlock is too far out of his reach. Sherlock's eyes jump to his, wide and surprised and questioning, and John just gives him a warm little smile and shrugs, like this is nothing out of the ordinary. Rubs his thumb against Sherlock's.

 

Sherlock blinks. “Oh,” he says again, even quieter this time, and glances down at their interlocked fingers.

 

John squeezes his hand. Offers another little smile.

 

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> I, uh... don't really know. I really can't believe I'm even posting this. I've never written anything other than Harry Potter before and this sort of just... fell out of my fingers. Rather clumsily, at that.  
> ...I think I like it, though. Let me know if I've missed any errors. Or if you have a suggestion for a better title, I suppose.  
> Feedback of any kind would be lovely.


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